(June 26, 2011)
Wouldn't you know that just when I need to go driving all over town, gathering everything I need before leaving the country for the summer, my car decides to conk out?
I'm not referring here to the world's ugliest auto, which I've written about in the past and which, you would rightly think, would hold a mighty grudge against me for calling it homely and not finding a single positive thing to say about it. No, this is the old lady's car with the old car's body. The car that turns mechanics on -- not just because it needs lots of work and has probably helped them buy a couple of boats with the money I've spent to keep the thing running -- but because of the sexy roar of that turbo engine when it smacks into action. With just 88,000 miles, this 1988 paint-peeling baby has zip, speed, and looks just great when pealing (sp?) ahead of others on the highway, although it looks quite decrepit when parked, idling, or moving at the speed of limits.
It's this car, sturdy and reliable, hiding its inner beauty under a hood, it's this car that has betrayed me when I need it most.
First, it starts whining. A high-pitched, bird-like sound that I think is coming from another nearby vehicle. When I finally realize that no single car has been following me around for over an hour and a half, I am almost as unnerved as I would have been had I confirmed that I was being stalked. Any remaining nerve disappears when I glance at my dashboard, where there are more lights flashing than you'd encounter on the annual Tacky Lights Christmas Tour. Not only are they warning me of low levels of fluid and high levels of engine temperature, but they are sending me subliminal and superliminal messages: GET OFF THE ROAD! NOW!
U- and me-turning, I draw into a gas station, parking in the rear. What seems like forever after calling for help, the mobile mechanic pulls up alongside me. After a careful and thorough 10-second evaluation, he says, "You're totally out of coolant."
That's unusual, because this car is always up to my neck in coolant. That's because the malfunctioning coolant gauge always says that the level is low, so we're always checking to keep it full. I tell this to the mechanic as I pay way too much for a big batch of the fluid in the station's convenience store. I stand next to him as he pours the liquid into the proper container and assures me that I'll be able to go my merry way.
My merry way is impeded when the mechanic notices the liquid gushing out from the bottom of the car. "Uh-oh," he says, never a good word coming from a mechanic who is crawling under your vehicle.
"It's the water pump," he tells me.
"It's gonna cost a million dollars," I hear.
"I can order one, but since the car is old, the part might not be in stock."
I go into the convenience store to explain my situation and ask permission to leave the car until the mechanic can fix it. "It's okay with me," says the fellow behind the counter, "but if the big boss comes by, he'll have it towed."
"Can you call the big boss?" I ask.
"No."
"Can I call the big boss?" I beg.
"No." The big boss is "the corporation," and you never know when its representatives will do a drive by and tow anything that they come across.
Mobile mechanic suggests driving the car into the nearest residential neighborhood and parking it. "You can drive it for about three minutes..." he says.
"Before it explodes," my mind finishes the sentence.
I park the car in a subdivision, in front of a house where there are already six or seven vehicles. Maybe they won´t notice the addition... I ring the doorbell, but nobody answers. So I walk down the block, knocking on doors, hoping to have someone else inform the homeowner of my plight and my request that he or she won´t have my car towed. No one is home.
Later that day, I drive back to the neighborhood in the super ugly car. The woman who eyes me suspiciously from behind a screen door guesses that it´s okay to leave the car, but I´ve parked it in her husband´s spot and am blocking the mailbox. Can I move it?
I can´t because I´ve already given the keys to the mobile mechanic and I don't have the spare with me. "I´ll come back tomorrow," I tell her.
Husband and I return to the neighborhood the next day. I tell the woman and her husband that the mechanic won´t be able to fix the car until tomorrow, because the wrong water pump came in. My husband moves the car down the block, while I explain that the car doesn´t have an up-to-date sticker because I hadn´t noticed that it had expired until a police officer stopped me the other day, verified that the fee had been paid, and my husband had sent in the $1.00 to get a replacement for the one I had never put on and had subsequently lost, but the new sticker hasn´t arrived yet. I give them my business card and home phone, so they can call me if there are any problems. I obviously come across as completely pathetic because the couple has become quite sympathetic.
The next day, despite three phone calls made and messages left, the mechanic never contacts us. Turns out he had a family emergency. When he calls the day after, he assures us that he will fix the car that very next day.
That´s the very day that we learn that my car has died. The mechanic says that it´s a blown head gasket, but I think it is pure and unadulterated spite.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Make up and Make Over (Richmond, VA)
(Written in April, 2011)
My dental hygienist is cleaning my teeth, and I'm telling her about my horrific passport photos. I suggest that we set up a mini-makeup clinic and hair salon at every location where passport pics are taken, so that women could look their best when looking their worst. "We'd make a mint," I say, although it sounds more like, "Wud mukka munth."
Amanda has been up to dental hi-jinx for a long time, so she understands. She understands that this is a bad idea. She also understands that I need help, so she recommends that I meet her at the makeup counter of Saks Fifth Avenue for a makeover.
When her hands and instruments are out of my mouth, I make clear that my last and only makeover took place when I was 22. The woman attempting to remake me, certainly did. She spackled me with layer upon layer of plaster-like goop. I was the original American Idol -- one that could have been placed in the middle of town in the same way that Michelangelo's David graces the main piazza in Florence, Italy. Except that I was not that big or impressive or well crafted or male or, shall we say, statue-esque. I guess I should say that the only real similarity was that if the statue of David or the newly made up me had smiled, both our faces would have cracked.
Despite the heavy-handed application of facial plaster, I thought I looked pretty damn cute -- although dour. I remember catching sight of my unrecognizable self in a store window: My skin was unchipped porcelain. My lips were full and pouty, my cheek bones high and highlighted, my eyes, flashy. My eyelashes were so long, they were practically knocking into passersby. I quickly adopted a near approximation of a confident, sexy stride.
When I strode into my apartment, my roommate shrieked: "What the HELL happened to you?!"
It took me two hours, a jar of Vaseline, and a roll of paper towels to remove my faux face.
"My make-up lady will know just what to do to make you look great," Amanda assured me.
Several days later, Amanda and I meet at the agreed-upon department store makeup counter. As an averred mall-hater, I take pride in avoiding exactly this type of location. I had considered donning a big hat and large sunglasses to shield me from the glare of the sun and anyone who might know me, but I reconsidered; it would be very difficult to apply makeup through a lens, darkly.
The makeup applicator is on break, so we escalate up to the designer dress boutiques. We waste time rummaging through racks of teeny ensembles, designed for tall babies or anorexic tweens, with huge prices that we couldn't afford, even if we wanted to buy something. Which we don't. Then we wander among displays of equally pricey dishes, glasses, and knickknacks. I decide to forgo purchasing a bead-bedecked bread knife in favor of paying my monthly mortgage. Sure, it's not as pretty, but woman cannot live by bread alone.
We return to the makeup counter and wait some more, while I comment, in hushed tones, that I don't want to walk out looking like any of the cosmetics consultants who are hard or hardly at work there. Amanda tells me to be quieter.
Finally, our gal appears -- well coiffed and smartly made up and down. Amanda introduces us, and I immediately clarify my intentions and parameters: "I want to look younger and as close as I can get to beautiful. And the process has to take me no more than two minutes a day. Otherwise, we are both wasting our time. Can you fix me?"
Let's call her "Cherry" is up to the challenge. She concentrates on the things that need the most fixing: a tinted moisturizer will lend me a natural "glow"; some missing eyebrow hairs will be penciled in to give me a more youthful visage; mascara and eye liner will make my eyes "pop."
I am assured by both Cherry and Amanda that I have received the equivalent of a magical, miracle redesign. I look "fresh," "vibrant," "renewed," "finished." My eyes are not just plain ol' windows to my soul; they're picture windows, no, Palladium windows, framed by lashes so long they can't believe they're real! My complexion comes and "glows." Frankly, I can't wait to see me!
I look in the mirror. My mother looks back at me. I am totally freaked out to realize that I have become my very own mother!!!!!
Despite the disquiet I feel, I am now the proud owner of a small collection of makeup that takes me 118 seconds to apply, that gives me a look so natural that nobody notices, and that cost me the equivalent of half a dress I can't afford.
My dental hygienist is cleaning my teeth, and I'm telling her about my horrific passport photos. I suggest that we set up a mini-makeup clinic and hair salon at every location where passport pics are taken, so that women could look their best when looking their worst. "We'd make a mint," I say, although it sounds more like, "Wud mukka munth."
Amanda has been up to dental hi-jinx for a long time, so she understands. She understands that this is a bad idea. She also understands that I need help, so she recommends that I meet her at the makeup counter of Saks Fifth Avenue for a makeover.
When her hands and instruments are out of my mouth, I make clear that my last and only makeover took place when I was 22. The woman attempting to remake me, certainly did. She spackled me with layer upon layer of plaster-like goop. I was the original American Idol -- one that could have been placed in the middle of town in the same way that Michelangelo's David graces the main piazza in Florence, Italy. Except that I was not that big or impressive or well crafted or male or, shall we say, statue-esque. I guess I should say that the only real similarity was that if the statue of David or the newly made up me had smiled, both our faces would have cracked.
Despite the heavy-handed application of facial plaster, I thought I looked pretty damn cute -- although dour. I remember catching sight of my unrecognizable self in a store window: My skin was unchipped porcelain. My lips were full and pouty, my cheek bones high and highlighted, my eyes, flashy. My eyelashes were so long, they were practically knocking into passersby. I quickly adopted a near approximation of a confident, sexy stride.
When I strode into my apartment, my roommate shrieked: "What the HELL happened to you?!"
It took me two hours, a jar of Vaseline, and a roll of paper towels to remove my faux face.
"My make-up lady will know just what to do to make you look great," Amanda assured me.
Several days later, Amanda and I meet at the agreed-upon department store makeup counter. As an averred mall-hater, I take pride in avoiding exactly this type of location. I had considered donning a big hat and large sunglasses to shield me from the glare of the sun and anyone who might know me, but I reconsidered; it would be very difficult to apply makeup through a lens, darkly.
The makeup applicator is on break, so we escalate up to the designer dress boutiques. We waste time rummaging through racks of teeny ensembles, designed for tall babies or anorexic tweens, with huge prices that we couldn't afford, even if we wanted to buy something. Which we don't. Then we wander among displays of equally pricey dishes, glasses, and knickknacks. I decide to forgo purchasing a bead-bedecked bread knife in favor of paying my monthly mortgage. Sure, it's not as pretty, but woman cannot live by bread alone.
We return to the makeup counter and wait some more, while I comment, in hushed tones, that I don't want to walk out looking like any of the cosmetics consultants who are hard or hardly at work there. Amanda tells me to be quieter.
Finally, our gal appears -- well coiffed and smartly made up and down. Amanda introduces us, and I immediately clarify my intentions and parameters: "I want to look younger and as close as I can get to beautiful. And the process has to take me no more than two minutes a day. Otherwise, we are both wasting our time. Can you fix me?"
Let's call her "Cherry" is up to the challenge. She concentrates on the things that need the most fixing: a tinted moisturizer will lend me a natural "glow"; some missing eyebrow hairs will be penciled in to give me a more youthful visage; mascara and eye liner will make my eyes "pop."
I am assured by both Cherry and Amanda that I have received the equivalent of a magical, miracle redesign. I look "fresh," "vibrant," "renewed," "finished." My eyes are not just plain ol' windows to my soul; they're picture windows, no, Palladium windows, framed by lashes so long they can't believe they're real! My complexion comes and "glows." Frankly, I can't wait to see me!
I look in the mirror. My mother looks back at me. I am totally freaked out to realize that I have become my very own mother!!!!!
Despite the disquiet I feel, I am now the proud owner of a small collection of makeup that takes me 118 seconds to apply, that gives me a look so natural that nobody notices, and that cost me the equivalent of half a dress I can't afford.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Picture This! (Richmond, VA)
(Written in March, 2011)
My passport expires in June, so I need to re-apply. Piece of cake. Fill out some paperwork, write a check, and -- uh oh! -- here's the hitch: include two, unsmiling, poorly lit photos that make criminal mug shots look glamorous by comparison.
I visit my friendly neighborhood pharmacy, scooting into the restroom to apply lipstick. To avoid looking like death warmed over, I dab some color on my cheeks. Then I run my hands (a.k.a. comb substitute) through my hair. Voila! I'm ready. The face reflected in the mirror isn't pretty, but it shouldn't scare the pants off or the be-jesus out of anyone.
I find the photo counter and the sweet 20-something who takes the pictures. He poses me in front of the white background, which helps create the desired effect.
Click. I examine the image: horror-film zombie.
Help! I've been face-snatched!
This can't possibly be me! Have I inherited my neck from a patchy, scaly, mottled dinosaur? Whose eyes are these? They're staring in different directions, indisputable proof of human evolution from a close insect-ancestor. Wrinkles I never noticed crease forehead and cheeks. A plethora of wrinkles -- maybe they've somehow moved from your face to mine. Hurry! Check the mirror! Maybe you are now wrinkle-free!
I am gazing at an unfamiliar map, crisscrossed with previously unchartered rivers and deltas, all etched in hi-def display. Freckles and shadows and dark discolorations vie with each other on an ashen background, coalescing in a patchwork quilt of splotchiness on what once I considered my face.
"Is this your first day?" I ask the photographer.
We give it another shot.
This time my eyes peer in the same direction, but I look as if I'm either facing a firing squad or viewing my own corpse. My hair, equally alarmed, stands on end.
I am visibly, as well as visually, distressed.
The camera man, momentarily perceptive, tells me that no woman is happy with her passport photo. Whipping out an album from behind the counter, he shows me a parade of highly disturbing and disturbed visages.
"That one's not bad," I say, pointing to the photo of a blue-eyed blond -- probably not at her photogenic best but passable -- about 20 years my junior. "I'll take it!"
Camera guy snatches the book from my hands. "You can't do that!" he admonishes.
"They won't let you use somebody else's photo. That doesn't look anything like you!"
"I prefer to think that's what they're going to say if I pull out the photograph that you just took," I reply and add, "Please do not say anything that is going to get you killed."
Of course, that's his invitation to say, "You don't really look THAT bad."
"You don't have a wife or a girlfriend, do you?" I ask him, sweetly. He shakes his suddenly pale-faced head, his eyes darting around the store like balls on a billiards table.
Female readers will understand with no problem that this fellow had just confirmed that I look terrible. But I must interpret his "manguage" into language that camera guy, himself, can comprehend. "This is not a compliment," I explain. "There is nothing, I mean NOTHING, that you can say to make me feel good about this photo except that your camera is obviously defective and that you don't know how to take a picture. Or you can just close your mouth and leave the building."
The poor kid is in shock. I pay for the photos, but only to console him.
I am depressed for the rest of the day.
My passport expires in June, so I need to re-apply. Piece of cake. Fill out some paperwork, write a check, and -- uh oh! -- here's the hitch: include two, unsmiling, poorly lit photos that make criminal mug shots look glamorous by comparison.
I visit my friendly neighborhood pharmacy, scooting into the restroom to apply lipstick. To avoid looking like death warmed over, I dab some color on my cheeks. Then I run my hands (a.k.a. comb substitute) through my hair. Voila! I'm ready. The face reflected in the mirror isn't pretty, but it shouldn't scare the pants off or the be-jesus out of anyone.
I find the photo counter and the sweet 20-something who takes the pictures. He poses me in front of the white background, which helps create the desired effect.
Click. I examine the image: horror-film zombie.
Help! I've been face-snatched!
This can't possibly be me! Have I inherited my neck from a patchy, scaly, mottled dinosaur? Whose eyes are these? They're staring in different directions, indisputable proof of human evolution from a close insect-ancestor. Wrinkles I never noticed crease forehead and cheeks. A plethora of wrinkles -- maybe they've somehow moved from your face to mine. Hurry! Check the mirror! Maybe you are now wrinkle-free!
I am gazing at an unfamiliar map, crisscrossed with previously unchartered rivers and deltas, all etched in hi-def display. Freckles and shadows and dark discolorations vie with each other on an ashen background, coalescing in a patchwork quilt of splotchiness on what once I considered my face.
"Is this your first day?" I ask the photographer.
We give it another shot.
This time my eyes peer in the same direction, but I look as if I'm either facing a firing squad or viewing my own corpse. My hair, equally alarmed, stands on end.
I am visibly, as well as visually, distressed.
The camera man, momentarily perceptive, tells me that no woman is happy with her passport photo. Whipping out an album from behind the counter, he shows me a parade of highly disturbing and disturbed visages.
"That one's not bad," I say, pointing to the photo of a blue-eyed blond -- probably not at her photogenic best but passable -- about 20 years my junior. "I'll take it!"
Camera guy snatches the book from my hands. "You can't do that!" he admonishes.
"They won't let you use somebody else's photo. That doesn't look anything like you!"
"I prefer to think that's what they're going to say if I pull out the photograph that you just took," I reply and add, "Please do not say anything that is going to get you killed."
Of course, that's his invitation to say, "You don't really look THAT bad."
"You don't have a wife or a girlfriend, do you?" I ask him, sweetly. He shakes his suddenly pale-faced head, his eyes darting around the store like balls on a billiards table.
Female readers will understand with no problem that this fellow had just confirmed that I look terrible. But I must interpret his "manguage" into language that camera guy, himself, can comprehend. "This is not a compliment," I explain. "There is nothing, I mean NOTHING, that you can say to make me feel good about this photo except that your camera is obviously defective and that you don't know how to take a picture. Or you can just close your mouth and leave the building."
The poor kid is in shock. I pay for the photos, but only to console him.
I am depressed for the rest of the day.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Recipe #1: Moroccan-Style Chicken Tajine with Almonds and Prunes (Richmond, VA)
Number-one-and-only son is living in an apartment this summer, so he can't take advantage of the all-you-can-eat cafeteria options available to him during the school year. He called yesterday to request some of his favorite chicken recipes for crock-pot cooking. This is the first one I send him:
MOROCCAN-STYLE CHICKEN TAJINE WITH ALMONDS AND PRUNES* (Serves 6 normal or 4 paranormal or 3 abnormally hungry people)
1/2 cup blanched almonds (or you can use the ones with skins on; nobody's looking!)
1/4 cup sesame seeds
Enough olive oil to coat the bottom of the crock pot, so the food won't stick
2 medium onions, sliced
1 4-lb chicken, cut into 8 serving pieces (or 4 lbs. of chicken thighs, best without skins, although bones are okay. Use organic chicken if you can afford it, because it's better and better for you.)
1 cup pitted dried prunes
1 fresh, ripe pear, thinly sliced or diced
1 tablespoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1/2 cup chicken broth
Toast the almonds in your toaster oven until light golden. Do the same with the sesame seeds. Watch carefully, so they don't go up in flames.
Set aside, except if they're burnt and you have to throw them away and start from scratch. (Always keep extra almonds and sesame seeds on hand, just in case....)
Put the oil and onion slices into the crock pot. Add chicken, prunes, pear, cinnamon, turmeric, salt and pepper, and broth.
Cover the crock pot and cook on high for 6 hours or low for 8.
Go do what you have to do -- work, study, exercise, whatever, and, of course, call your mother.
When the smell of this food gets so amazingly enticing that you can't help taking the lid off the crock pot to check to see if it's done, it's probably done.
Gently mix everything and, if the chicken isn't pink inside, take a taste.
Before serving, sprinkle chicken with toasted almonds and sesame seeds.
Sit down, relax, dig in.
When you're finished, call your mother to thank her for this recipe.
(*With apologies to "The Sephardic Table" by Paula Grau Twena)
MOROCCAN-STYLE CHICKEN TAJINE WITH ALMONDS AND PRUNES* (Serves 6 normal or 4 paranormal or 3 abnormally hungry people)
1/2 cup blanched almonds (or you can use the ones with skins on; nobody's looking!)
1/4 cup sesame seeds
Enough olive oil to coat the bottom of the crock pot, so the food won't stick
2 medium onions, sliced
1 4-lb chicken, cut into 8 serving pieces (or 4 lbs. of chicken thighs, best without skins, although bones are okay. Use organic chicken if you can afford it, because it's better and better for you.)
1 cup pitted dried prunes
1 fresh, ripe pear, thinly sliced or diced
1 tablespoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1/2 cup chicken broth
Toast the almonds in your toaster oven until light golden. Do the same with the sesame seeds. Watch carefully, so they don't go up in flames.
Set aside, except if they're burnt and you have to throw them away and start from scratch. (Always keep extra almonds and sesame seeds on hand, just in case....)
Put the oil and onion slices into the crock pot. Add chicken, prunes, pear, cinnamon, turmeric, salt and pepper, and broth.
Cover the crock pot and cook on high for 6 hours or low for 8.
Go do what you have to do -- work, study, exercise, whatever, and, of course, call your mother.
When the smell of this food gets so amazingly enticing that you can't help taking the lid off the crock pot to check to see if it's done, it's probably done.
Gently mix everything and, if the chicken isn't pink inside, take a taste.
Before serving, sprinkle chicken with toasted almonds and sesame seeds.
Sit down, relax, dig in.
When you're finished, call your mother to thank her for this recipe.
(*With apologies to "The Sephardic Table" by Paula Grau Twena)
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Coffee, Tea, or He? (Richmond, VA)
Maybe it's the blare of salsa music in small spaces. Perhaps it's genetic. Or it could be that the passage of time has affected my inner ear-ways. Be that as it may, I am definitely experiencing a bit of hearing loss. While you may think that this is something negative, I am finding that, at least at times, it makes life more entertaining.
I'm in Starbucks, ordering a cup of Joe. "I'll have a tall, dark, and handsome," I joke with the gray-haired woman behind the counter.
"With a six pack or without?" she counters.
"I'm not a beer drinker," I respond.
"That's not what I meant," she says.
"I know."
Then, as I'm turning to walk away, she asks, "Do you scream?"
I do an Exorcist-inspired neck whip-around. "Huh?!"
"Do you scream?"
"Wha-a-a-t?" I'm taken aback and aforth -- shocked into wide-eyed confusion.
She looks me in the wider eye and repeats the question, in that loud, exaggerated, and over-enunciated way people usually reserve for berating disobedient children or explaining something to someone who doesn't speak English: "DO YOU USE CREAM?"
The answer, when I'm able to stop laughing and start breathing again, is: "Yes."
I'm in Starbucks, ordering a cup of Joe. "I'll have a tall, dark, and handsome," I joke with the gray-haired woman behind the counter.
"With a six pack or without?" she counters.
"I'm not a beer drinker," I respond.
"That's not what I meant," she says.
"I know."
Then, as I'm turning to walk away, she asks, "Do you scream?"
I do an Exorcist-inspired neck whip-around. "Huh?!"
"Do you scream?"
"Wha-a-a-t?" I'm taken aback and aforth -- shocked into wide-eyed confusion.
She looks me in the wider eye and repeats the question, in that loud, exaggerated, and over-enunciated way people usually reserve for berating disobedient children or explaining something to someone who doesn't speak English: "DO YOU USE CREAM?"
The answer, when I'm able to stop laughing and start breathing again, is: "Yes."
Hear Today, Gone Tomorrow (Richmond, VA)
Although we've matured into sweet, caring, and compassionate adults, my brother and I were sometimes, I must confess, mean little children -- although he was the older child who probably should have known better, while I was the innocent and adoring younger sister who wanted to imitate and impress him. But, anyway, I particularly remember our torturing Aunt Ceil, who wore a hearing aid, by pretending to yell loudly into her face when we were, actually, silently mouthing words.
Well, there is such a thing as Karma, you know.
I know, because I was Karma-lized, not for the first or last time, about six years ago. Convinced that I was losing my hearing, I scheduled an appointment with the audiologist. He put me through the entire audio-file, checking to see if my ears were waxing prolific, ascertaining my ability to raise a hand upon hearing beeps or peeps, and testing whether or not I could distinguish and repeat whispered words.
When informed that I had passed every examination, I expressed incredulity. "There's definitely something wrong with my hearing," I insisted.
"Why do you say that?" asked the doctor.
"I can't hear my son when he speaks," I said.
"How old is your son?"
"Fifteen."
"You can't hear him," explained the wise doctor, "because he doesn't want you to hear him."
Well, there is such a thing as Karma, you know.
I know, because I was Karma-lized, not for the first or last time, about six years ago. Convinced that I was losing my hearing, I scheduled an appointment with the audiologist. He put me through the entire audio-file, checking to see if my ears were waxing prolific, ascertaining my ability to raise a hand upon hearing beeps or peeps, and testing whether or not I could distinguish and repeat whispered words.
When informed that I had passed every examination, I expressed incredulity. "There's definitely something wrong with my hearing," I insisted.
"Why do you say that?" asked the doctor.
"I can't hear my son when he speaks," I said.
"How old is your son?"
"Fifteen."
"You can't hear him," explained the wise doctor, "because he doesn't want you to hear him."
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Heat Wave (Richmond, VA)
My favorite seasons are Spring and Fall, those in-between times when days are cool and comfortable and nights, cooler and comfortabler still. I crave the crescendo of colorful flowers and turning leaves, bask in the breezes, revel in the roaring rainfalls.
Winters bring snow, beautiful as it cascades down and blankets the barren landscape. Beautiful for the first 20 minutes -- before it sullies to an incredibly unattractive shade of gray-brown-black, the result of foot and vehicular traffic, of chimney emanations and churned-up soil and clay. Beautiful before it causes us to have to excavate our cars from the snowbanks that bury them and to dig them out yet again, each time the snowplow passes. Then the snow turns to ice, and the real lack of fun begins. Walking turns treacherous. In their inexplicable quest to deplete grocery shelves of milk and eggs, lunatic drivers careen into median strips and other vehicles. Here in Richmond, when snow is in the air or even predicted on the airwaves, we shutter schools, businesses, and life for a full week. Due to the phenomenon of global or national or regional or local warming, we are back to what passes for normal within a few days or 30 minutes. Except for the grim, sooty snow mountains, which stick around for months or centuries, like icebergs towering over nearly every parking lot. (Suggestion: They could be converted into monuments to Confederate heroes!!!)
On the positive side, one CAN seek refuge from the winter cold. Most buildings are sufficiently heated, sometimes (as in my workplace) approximating sauna temperatures. Wearing layers of clothing is advisable. I always have my heavy faux-fur coat, a sweater, a long-sleeved shirt, a tee, stockings, knee-high socks, boots, and "inside" shoes either on or nearby. Sometimes, as in my home (which Husband insists on maintaining at what he considers a healthful temperature -- which translates to normal people as Arctic, unbearable, and more frigid than it is outside), I pull on long underwear (in addition to my normally short underwear), furry slippers, and wool sweaters so ample that I could secrete the donor sheep in there with me. I burrow under all the blankets, quilts, and random overcoats that I can get my mittens on.
A southern summer is not quite so easy to escape. You can divest yourself of most of your clothing, to the tsk-tsking or ogling of innocent and experienced bystanders, but your skin still sticks with you. The air oozes, thicker than my winter woollies. The very act of breathing makes me work up a sweat. Emerging from my morning shower un-freshed, I dry off merely to wet on. Clothes cling. Rashes arise. The only part of me that delights is my hair; it springs forth, a profusion of frizzy, wiry, cork-screwy curls that make my head appear an over-sized Brillo pad, too big for my body to support, too unwieldy to scour sticky pots in the average-sized kitchen sink.
Air conditioned environs offer some respite and, often, a path to pneumonia. Again, you need a suitcase full of clothing, from bikini to snowsuit, as you never know how hot or cold you'll be, inside or out. I am not a fan of air conditioning, which reminds me that Legionnaire's disease might be just a breath away. Neither do I enjoy being in rooms where fans merely serve to ripple the near-liquid streams of sluggish air.
This is what I am facing today, as the temperature soars to near 100 degrees F, the humidity to 190%, and the combination boils down to a sort of crock pot for stewing any known life form in its own juices.
Needless to write, I am clamoring for Spring or Autumn -- the rains that actually cool us off, the temperate temperatures that enable us to go about our daily business and pleasure without having to pry ourselves off sticky seats, causing us to sacrifice a tender layer of skin and leaving us even more hot and bothered.
Winters bring snow, beautiful as it cascades down and blankets the barren landscape. Beautiful for the first 20 minutes -- before it sullies to an incredibly unattractive shade of gray-brown-black, the result of foot and vehicular traffic, of chimney emanations and churned-up soil and clay. Beautiful before it causes us to have to excavate our cars from the snowbanks that bury them and to dig them out yet again, each time the snowplow passes. Then the snow turns to ice, and the real lack of fun begins. Walking turns treacherous. In their inexplicable quest to deplete grocery shelves of milk and eggs, lunatic drivers careen into median strips and other vehicles. Here in Richmond, when snow is in the air or even predicted on the airwaves, we shutter schools, businesses, and life for a full week. Due to the phenomenon of global or national or regional or local warming, we are back to what passes for normal within a few days or 30 minutes. Except for the grim, sooty snow mountains, which stick around for months or centuries, like icebergs towering over nearly every parking lot. (Suggestion: They could be converted into monuments to Confederate heroes!!!)
On the positive side, one CAN seek refuge from the winter cold. Most buildings are sufficiently heated, sometimes (as in my workplace) approximating sauna temperatures. Wearing layers of clothing is advisable. I always have my heavy faux-fur coat, a sweater, a long-sleeved shirt, a tee, stockings, knee-high socks, boots, and "inside" shoes either on or nearby. Sometimes, as in my home (which Husband insists on maintaining at what he considers a healthful temperature -- which translates to normal people as Arctic, unbearable, and more frigid than it is outside), I pull on long underwear (in addition to my normally short underwear), furry slippers, and wool sweaters so ample that I could secrete the donor sheep in there with me. I burrow under all the blankets, quilts, and random overcoats that I can get my mittens on.
A southern summer is not quite so easy to escape. You can divest yourself of most of your clothing, to the tsk-tsking or ogling of innocent and experienced bystanders, but your skin still sticks with you. The air oozes, thicker than my winter woollies. The very act of breathing makes me work up a sweat. Emerging from my morning shower un-freshed, I dry off merely to wet on. Clothes cling. Rashes arise. The only part of me that delights is my hair; it springs forth, a profusion of frizzy, wiry, cork-screwy curls that make my head appear an over-sized Brillo pad, too big for my body to support, too unwieldy to scour sticky pots in the average-sized kitchen sink.
Air conditioned environs offer some respite and, often, a path to pneumonia. Again, you need a suitcase full of clothing, from bikini to snowsuit, as you never know how hot or cold you'll be, inside or out. I am not a fan of air conditioning, which reminds me that Legionnaire's disease might be just a breath away. Neither do I enjoy being in rooms where fans merely serve to ripple the near-liquid streams of sluggish air.
This is what I am facing today, as the temperature soars to near 100 degrees F, the humidity to 190%, and the combination boils down to a sort of crock pot for stewing any known life form in its own juices.
Needless to write, I am clamoring for Spring or Autumn -- the rains that actually cool us off, the temperate temperatures that enable us to go about our daily business and pleasure without having to pry ourselves off sticky seats, causing us to sacrifice a tender layer of skin and leaving us even more hot and bothered.
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